A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I’m doing my best to clip him
in the jaw, to knock him flat, but each punch
checks, softens, the instant before impact.
He’d changed his mind – like that – leaving me
dripping, flushed. The flowering apple out back
is seconds from blossom. I’ve no choice
but to level him another way –
I’ll invite his friends to watch me pack the china
as I roll teacups in tissue too short
to cover fragile handles and gilded
lips. In spite, in spite. I want him. In sleep,
tree buds, tight as fists, tick to the sun’s certain
clock. They march toward their uncoiling
as punctual as dust
on the end table that blooms
when my back is turned, the way a spring
has a duty to unspool.
The way we must start over. Now in a body
of water we are wading toward a movie.
I stand behind, wrapping my arms around him.
The screen is larger than life.
Copyright 2016 Jane Adair (formerly Jane Wampler)